But there was something about the picture she did not like. She looked at
it with a growing dissatisfaction. And then she saw what it was. The
woman was sinking to melancholy. She bowed under the hand of fate. She
did not know why, this night of all others, she should resent that. What
did she want? What could she expect?
She stirred restlessly under the dissatisfaction. It seemed too much
fate's triumph to leave it like this. Not this surrender, but a little of
the Spartan, a touch of sternness, a little defiance in the hunger, an
understanding--that was it!--a submission in which there was the dignity
of understanding. Ah--here it was!--a knowing that thousands had endured
and must endure, but as an echo from the Stoics--"Well?"
The idea fascinated her--swept through her with a strange, wild
passion. She scarcely knew what she was doing, when, after a long
time of looking at the picture, she began getting out her things. Her
face had wholly changed. She too had now the understanding, stern,
all-comprehending--"Well?"--for fate.
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